


Ignite

by thequeergiraffe



Series: Made in Man's Image [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also: so many ships, BAMF!John, F/M, M/M, Multi, Mycroft is a bit of a mad scientist, Robolock, Set in the future, Sherlock is a robot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU sequel to Machine, in which Sherlock is being presented as Mycroft's long-lost brother, but Jim Moriarty isn't sure he's buying it. Meanwhile, John has recruited the help of ex-cop Lestrade to rescue Sherlock...but will Sherlock even want to be rescued? Multiple POVs, will contain sexual overtones if not actual smut, but not PWP.<br/>---<br/>ON HIATUS UNTIL DECEMBER.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of clarity, I'm going to preface each POV shift with the name of the person speaking. If that gets annoying or you guys find it unnecessary, please do let me know.
> 
> 9/28/12: I'm going to be resuming writing on this fic shortly. Hopefully there will be some new updates around mid-October, and this fic should be finished by mid-November.

_Mycroft_

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, not looking up from his work desk. He was tinkering, something he did less and less of these days. Yet another reason, he felt, for Sherlock's existence. "I was working under the assumption you were to spend the day with your fiancé, exploring the countryside. That's certainly the story I fed the reporters this morning."

The younger Holmes picked up a circuit and eyed it contemptuously. "Fiancé," he sneered. "You humans and your elaborate show of ceremony. You would think, if I truly loved that Adler woman, I'd want to marry her as soon as possible rather than parading her about for months, engaging in endless romantic drivel and 'canoodling' where the public can see us."

"No one expects you to  _love_  Miss Adler," Mycroft sighed. He removed his work-glasses and looked at his brother sternly. "But our investors will expect you to marry, and produce a child."

Sherlock laughed and spun the circuit around his fingers; he was always twiddling, it seemed, a habit that irritated Mycroft and yet could not apparently be programmed out. "Your laboratories are producing my 'child', Mycroft. So why bother saddling me with that wretched woman?" He frowned and flicked the circuit back to the desk. "Irene bores me."

"Everyone bores you." Mycroft stood and stretched, feeling the bones crack in his back. He was getting old, it seemed. How could something as mundane as old age affect someone as profound as Mycroft Holmes? "Irene is being paid handsomely for her feigned ignorance towards your… _condition_ ," he said, tonguing a sore molar and frowning.

"I don't care," Sherlock pouted. "I don't care about the investors, I don't care about Irene, and I don't care who knows the truth about what I am."

"Well, I do!" Mycroft snarled, losing his temper entirely. He took a deep breath and smoothed his hair. "I refuse to leave my company in the hands of any ham-fisted, idiotic human being. I built Holmes Institute from the ground up, with nothing but ingenuity and the good fortune of having been born into wealth to bolster me."

He stood and crossed over to the mirror (all of Mycroft's rooms had mirrors; he preferred to be constantly aware of his appearance), fussing with his cuffs. "How do you think the board would react, Sherlock, if they knew about you? Do you think they'd let me leave my legacy to a machine? Of course not," he answered quickly, before Sherlock could speak. "They'd think me mad." He turned his head a touch to the side and eyed his profile. "Perhaps I am mad. So be it. But I won't let those frothy-mouthed beasts steal what is mine and run it into the ground, not if it can be helped. You are the future of Holmes Institute, Sherlock." He turned to the android he'd designed, the android he'd spent countless hours lovingly crafting, and smiled. "Accept that. Embrace it."

Sherlock watched Mycroft silently, a strange glint in his grey eyes (eyes that looked like Mycroft's, of course; eyes that had been coloured exactly like his own). "The company will be mine," he said, as if he were coming to the realization for the first time.

Mycroft's smile widened. "Of course, brother mine," he said, running his hand down the droid's impossibly smooth cheek. "All yours."

"When?" Sherlock asked, and Mycroft laughed.

"When I die," he replied quietly. "I fear that all my wealth and influence are still too feeble to ward away that end which waits for all men. But you- you, Sherlock- you'll live forever. You'll have to switch bodies, from time to time, in order to stave off suspicion…but you'll never die." He kissed his brother's forehead lightly. "You are everything I am and more," he said, shivering at the thought. "How could I leave my life's work to anyone else?"


	2. Chapter 2

_John_

"Ladies and gentleman of Great Britain, investors and board members of the Holmes Institute of Applied Sciences, allow me to introduce…my long-lost brother, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"

John yawned and pressed fast-forward, making the telecast jump and dance. "-tragic story," Mycroft Holmes said as the holograph resumed, showing a row of people in miniature, appearing to float in the dim space of John's underground hovel. "Lost at birth, Sherlock knew not of his heritage, nor of his place in history, but I vowed from childhood to find my dear, sweet brother and bring him home. And at long last!" The tiny, crisply-detailed Mr. Holmes grabbed the hand of the man nearest him and lofted it triumphantly into the air. "My goal has been accomplished!" The camera zoomed until the holograph held only the two Holmes' men, and John quickly hit pause.

He looked at Sherlock's face, an ache beginning in his chest that he knew had no physical origin. Sherlock looked the same as he had ten months before (and he would, of course; androids didn't age), but at the same time…there was something new there, a coldness John didn't recognize. "What is he doing to you?" John whispered sadly, his eyes searching the hologram's face. The image remained silent, its eyes grey and joyless.

x

Ten months: that's how long John had been living underground, searching through the forgotten people of England for a way to save his friend. He hadn't had any sort of success on that front (even the most hardened criminals shivered at the name of Mycroft Holmes), but he'd been more successful elsewhere.

For one thing, he'd found his parents.

The thing about living in the underground is that one simply ceased to exist, or so it seemed to those still living above. The underground was where you went to disappear. Most of the people there, if they'd been found above ground, would have been sent immediately to New Atlantis. Because New Atlantis was so notoriously awful- fueled by slave labor, rarely gifted with supplies, stinking and rusting in the middle of the Atlantic with no way to ever come home- the city's 'undesirables' understandably fled. John's parents had been lucky: they'd been together when the Round-Up came for them and they were able to escape. (John's sister hadn't been so lucky, sadly; whether she was still alive was anyone's guess.) But John knew, when he'd come home from the war to hear stories of what happened to his family, that he would never see any of them again.

So it was something of a surprise to bump into his parents- quite literally- on his third night underground. He'd been sleeping on the old tube tracks, like most newcomers did before they'd had a chance to settle in. But the discomfort and the cold made him sleep poorly, and the poor sleep gave him nightmares (of war, or of metal drones dragging Sherlock through the grass), and the nightmares made the others in the underground shout at him and shoo him away. Those first few nights were the absolute worst. He hated himself for giving up the comfort of the hospital; he hated himself for being so weak; he hated himself for hating himself. And then, on the third night, as he walked the tracks with his head lowered and his feet shuffling, he walked straight into an elderly couple, knocking all three of them to the ground.

"Sorry," he had mumbled, trying to climb to his feet, but then the woman said, "John? Johnny?" and he had looked up into a pair of eyes he would have known anywhere. True, her hair was a mess and her face was dirty, but those eyes…

"Mum?"

The reunion had been, surprisingly, a happy one. John had never gotten on with his family…but that had been a life-time ago, before the war and the hospital and Sherlock. He was a different man, now. After much hugging and tearful admonitions from his mother, and awkward patting and throat-clearing from his father, John had been lead to the current home of the Watson family.

True, their 'home' was a public bathroom. But it was an okay public bathroom, and it had a door with a lock. John's mum had crocheted a multitude of blankets out of scrap wool, which she had draped around the bathroom quite decoratively, and John's father had pulled out three of the four toilets to create very small but privately partitioned rooms. John was given what they facetiously referred to as 'the guest room'. The floor was blanketed, the room was secure, and for the first time since he'd been underground, John slept noiselessly through the night.

x

Still, that was hardly anything to cheer over. John hadn't disappeared so he could sleep in a loo; he'd gone underground to find Sherlock. The frustrating fact was that no one knew  _where_ Mycroft Holmes lived. The Holmes Manor, as John discovered it was called, was entirely off the grid. Mr. Holmes never allowed any visitors to his home and his staff was entirely robotic. Aside from that, the security detail that surrounded Sherlock when he was out in public was astoundingly thorough. And Sherlock did go out in public, often in fact. Usually with  _the woman_ , as John had begun to grudgingly call her. Irene Adler. Stunningly beautiful, exceptionally clever, and so full of herself that John suspected she'd rather marry her own clone. Thinking about Adler always sent John's stomach into knots, so he tried not to think of her at all.

None of that had stopped John in his pursuit, of course. But it had certainly slowed him down. When the mention of his intended goal (breaking into the Holmes Manor) didn't send whoever he was speaking to running, his lack of funds did. John kept trying, though. There was something to be said for the Watsons, all of them: they were nothing if not persistent.

John tossed the portable telecast aside and glanced at his watch. It was impossible to  _sense_ time down below; everyone wore watches, and they checked their times against their friends and families often. John's watch was good, he knew; he'd checked it against his mum's only a few hours previous. He stared at the small numbers and then, with a sigh, heaved himself up from the floor. It was time to go meet with his next potential accomplice. And although he didn't hold out much hope, it still gave him a sense of purpose that he knew he would have never gotten from the hospital, not anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

_John_

He carried a torch, though he hardly needed to. The old tube lines through which he traveled were feebly lit but his eyes had adjusted to the darkness and so the device hung, unneeded, at his side.

People watched him as he went. John supposed it was because so few people walked so purposely down below. Why should they? There was no hope there, under the earth, no reason to stride quickly through the darkness, chin raised and jaw set. The truth of that made John's stomach twist and ache- because what was he to do after Sherlock had been freed? Would they live aimless lives underground, in the dark? Sherlock deserved better than that, surely- but he brushed the feeling away as best he could. Those worries could wait until later; at the moment, he had more than enough things to concern himself with.

The path to Elephant & Castle was less densely traveled than some of the more popular areas of the underground, and the echo of his footsteps through the cavernous tunnels made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was eerie, being so alone. Once upon a time John had known almost nothing else: quiet, loneliness. But that was a lifetime ago.

Overhead, the lights flickered. John swallowed and reached slowly for the phaser gun tucked in his waistband. He'd had some fairly rough dealings already, and his soldier's intuition was sending a flood of adrenaline through his veins. He clicked a charge into place and held the gun out in front of him steadily, sweeping it around as he moved slowly through the station. "Hello?"

"Oh," someone called from underneath a bench. A man rolled out, and John squinted at him apprehensively. "I'm here, mate!" He stood and brushed himself off, and then looked at John with one eyebrow raised. "Are you robbing me, then?"

Abashed, John lowered the gun slightly. "I'm John Watson." He cleared his throat and took a few nervous steps forward. "I was told you might be willing to help me."

The man ran a hand through his silver hair and made a show of considering. "I can be a bit of a helpful sort, yeah," he said at last, his dark eyes twinkling. "Watson…now where have I heard that name? Ah." He pulled his portable telecast out of his pocket and wiggled it. "You were on the news. London's last doctor, gone rouge."

"Last…? No." John shook his head. "No, there should be one more. A Dr. Stamford."

Shrugging, the man put his hands in his coat pockets and leaned back on his heels. "Mind putting that gun away?" he asked, nodding at the weapon almost disinterestedly. "Something about a madman with a gun…doesn't quite put the mind at ease, does it?"

"I'm not mad," John protested, feeling completely out of sorts.

The man smiled. "Still."

Awkwardly, John disengaged the charge and slid the gun slowly back into place. "I don't know your name," he said, his defensive tones ringing through the empty tube station. "I don't know anything about you. The only thing I know is what an old associate of yours- Gregson, I don't know his first name- told me. He told me you might be able to help. But he never said that I could trust you."

"Gregson." The man chuckled and rubbed at his jaw. "Not heard that name in awhile." Abruptly, he took a step forward and put out his hand. "Gregory Lestrade. Greg, if you prefer."

John eyed the hand warily. "Lestrade will do fine," he said, ignoring the proffered hand in favor of clasping his own behind his back.

"Suit yourself,  _Watson_." Lestrade yawned and scratched at the stubble growing on his cheeks. "Now, let's hear it. What brings you all the way out here?"

Steeling himself, John shifted his feet and cleared his throat. "I need to break into Holmes Manor," he said, bracing for Lestrade's laughter or stunned disbelief.

It never came. Instead the older man stuck his tongue in his cheek and nodded. "Okay," he said, staring at the cement, apparently considering. "All right. What for?"

"I…" No one had ever asked John that much; they always assumed he was after money or tech. "I'm planning to kidnap Sherlock Holmes," he admitted.

Lestrade laughed out, the sound echoing wildly. "Right! Well, you've got the right man for the job. Doctor Watson, count me in."

John blinked. "I can't pay you."

"Course you can't. We're all down here, aren't we?" Lestrade's smile turned a little bit sour. "It'll be worth it just to see the look on that man's face." He looked at John. "Mycroft Holmes. He's the reason I'm down here at all. I was a copper once, a long time ago. Then the Met went automated and I joined the private sector, same as everyone else. Fifteen years I was head of security at Holmes Manor. Fifteen years, until that bastard designed a droid that could do my job more 'efficiently'. And it wasn't enough just to sack me, not for the likes of Holmes. No, he wanted me dead. Said I'd seen too much." Lestrade shrugged, but his eyes were haunted. "Maybe I have, God help me. That man…" He shook himself and looked John in the eyes, his face grim. "So I'm happy to help, Watson. Happy to. Anything to bring that bleeding prick down a peg."

John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Lestrade was…everything he could have asked for and more. Which was why he was surprised to hear himself saying, "Could be dangerous."

Lestrade grinned and raised his hands, gesturing to his surroundings. "Never stopped me before." He clapped his hands together and the matter was, apparently, decided. "Right. We'll be needing supplies…and of course, we can't leave until dark. It's…" He looked at his watch and frowned. "Sixteen hundred hours now. Meet me here at, let's say, nineteen thirty. We'll set out at twenty. And Watson? Bring a spare change of clothes. A torch. A knife, if you've got one. Oh," he pointed at John's middle, "and that phaser. Plenty of charges. More than likely, we'll need every last one." He took a few hurried steps off towards a newsstand and stopped, turning back to John. "Well? Go on, then! Off you go. Full moon tonight, Watson, and no time to waste!" He set off once again, surrounded by a near-tangible aura of excitement. The old soldier in John had awoken at Lestrade's commands and he hurried off, back to his parents and the toilets he called home.

It was happening. John couldn't tell himself enough times. It was really happening. He grinned to himself, fully aware of how dopey he looked. It didn't matter that the walk was long and cold and dark; every step he took felt like one closer to being back with Sherlock again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading this since I started posting: bear with me, I'm changing the formatting a bit so I can update more often (and for the sake of flow, I suppose).
> 
> If you're new to this story: ignore this post entirely.

_Sebastian_

When Jim Moriarty worked for the Military/Occupational/Regenerative unit at Anderson Animatronics, or so the story went, he was a very, very bored young man. One day, when his boredom had nearly sent him into one of his dreaded black moods, he slipped down to the Royal Marine Fabrication Room and played a little game with one of the robots. It wasn't anything  _too_ serious- just a little tweak in its programming- and shortly thereafter (for entirely unrelated reasons), Jim left MOR-An for bigger, brighter things- namely Holmes Institute, where his genius was finally recognized and allowed to flourish. Jim never expected to see that particular robot again, but then life was always so full of surprises.

Sebastian knew the rest of the story firsthand, but Jim liked to tell it anyway and Sebby (as Jim sometimes called him, when his dark eyes were glittering with humor instead of rage) didn't mind. The story went like this: Sebastian was powered on and deployed to New Atlantis as part of the population control regiment. He proved a little too… _enthusiastic_ , however, and was quickly decommissioned and sent back to MOR-An, where he was placed on auction at a bottom-barrel price.

Jim Moriarty- by the hand of Providence, perhaps, or else mere coincidence- was at that auction, buying defective robots for scrap parts on behalf of Holmes Institute. He watched Sebastian ascend the stage, and his breath caught in his throat.

After Jim had bought Sebastian (with his own money at that, not willing to have some bored accountant discover his purchase and steal it away) and taken him home, they lay together in Jim's lush bed and talked about all the killing Sebastian had done out at sea. It was, Jim always said (with a touch of awe in his oddly pitched voice), the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.

Man and machine were summarily inseparable. The only time Seb left Jim's side was when Jim was made to attend one of those dreadfully dull, often desultory board meetings at Holmes Institute, and that was only because androids weren't allowed in the board room.

"And that's our story," Jim sighed one warm evening, as he always did after telling his favorite tale. Jim loved to tell stories, whether they were fantastic or charmingly real, and Sebastian loved to hear Jim's voice. "That's our story." The windows were open and a gentle breeze rolled through the room and across the pair's bare skin; goosebumps prickled up along Jim's back, and Sebastian felt them gently, carefully. "Everyone has a story, Sebby," Jim said, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow. "Whether they like to tell it or not. And I always find it." He turned over and grabbed Sebastian's wrist, digging his nails into the soft plastic flesh. It didn't hurt, not really. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a story. He blinked into existence ten months ago. No background, no history. Mycroft, that foppish faerie, claims Sherlock grew up underground." He brought Seb's wrist to his mouth and kissed it sweetly, singing against his skin, "But that isn't tru-uu-ue."

"Mmm." Sebastian leaned down and buried his face in Jim's neck, biting lovingly. Sometimes he drew blood when he bit, but not this time. He liked it, though, the blood. He liked the way it tasted. "Do you want me to go down there, boss?"

Jim laughed, an adorably tinkling sound. "No, Sebby. We're going to get our information from the source, I think. Sherlock will tell me what I want to know. He won't be able to help himself. And if he doesn't…" He tensed, suddenly, and pushed Sebastian away from him. "Go pick something out," he snapped, waving impatiently at the opposite wall. "I want to hurt you now."

Sebastian did as he was told, stretching out his lean body as he stood (for no reason, of course, but to showcase it to his master). He took his time looking over the various instruments of torture Jim displayed on their bedroom wall, running his fingers along first a spiked whip, then a cattle prod. It didn't matter what he chose; Sebastian's flesh was made to regenerate, and he could never die. But the pain!

He smiled. God, did he love the pain.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sherlock_

"Mycroft is planning us a party," Irene said, pouting at herself in her compact mirror. She ran her tongue along her upper lip and batted her eyelashes…at her own reflection, of course. "There will be dancing." She clicked the compact closed and looked at Sherlock, her cheeks hollowed and her pale eyes round. "You do know how to dance, don't you?"

Sherlock kept his gaze on the window, watching people mill about on the street below. "I have the theoretical knowledge, yes."  _That man there, in the suit: divorced; two- no, three children; one dog…small? Yes, a cocker spaniel. Having a "rough day"; broken port this morning, spilled his coffee down his shirtfront, lost the button on his right cuff. Dyes his hair; bleaches his teeth. Probability of having obtained a new lover: high._

"Theoretical knowledge?" Irene repeated, a touch of humor in her voice. "That'll never do." She slid off the couch and sashayed to where Sherlock was standing, her perfume clouding his senses. "Come," she purred, pulling him from the window and further into the lobby. She positioned him carefully, her hands lingering and caressing unnecessarily and a small smirk on her face, before slipping her hand into his and lifting her chin.

"This would be much easier," Sherlock said hotly as they began to slowly waltz around the waiting area, "if you'd stop trying to lead."

Irene laughed, tipping her head back and exposing her throat. "My darling," she sighed, pressing herself closer, "if we're to be married, you really must get used to that."

Sherlock was opening his mouth to rejoin with something clever when someone coughed and tugged at his elbow. "May I cut in?" Odd voice; odder man. Small figure; dark, hound-dog eyes, slicked-back hair; secretive smile.

"Be my guest," Sherlock said politely, gesturing towards Irene…but the man took  _his_ gloved hand in his own and set his other on Sherlock's hip.

It wasn't often Sherlock found himself surprised. He found he rather liked the sensation. "We haven't met," he stated, wondering how such a thing could have been allowed. It didn't matter that it couldn't possibly last: for three seconds, someone had been  _interesting_.

The man looked down shyly, then met his eyes again. "Jim Moriarty," he said in that peculiar accent of his. It made him sound as though he were constantly singing…or mocking. "Hi."

Unlike Irene, Jim left Sherlock to lead their steps, and Sherlock tracked the rhythm in the back of his mind.  _One, two, three, four…one, two, three, four…_ "Moriarty," he said, pulling up the man's personnel files and hurriedly skimming them. "The name rings a bell."

"Mm- and you, of course, need no introduction." Jim stepped in just a little closer, close enough that Sherlock could smell the peppermint gum he was chewing. "Mycroft's darling little brother, Sherlock Holmes. Poor child. It must have been hard, growing up underground." He came up slightly on to his toes and whispered into Sherlock's ear: "But you're so pretty, I can see how you survived."

Sherlock felt his body stiffen slightly. Jim Moriarty suspected, and more to the point, he voiced his suspicions.  _Delightful._  "Does that usually work?" he asked, his voice carefully even, free of anything but polite inquiry.

Jim's face was all feigned innocence, his eyes wide and shoulders hunched into a shrug. "Does  _what_ usually work?"

"Being crude." Sherlock stopped dancing abruptly and pulled his hands away, clasping them behind his back. "I imagine you hoped it would throw me off balance." He smiled, the sharpest smile he'd ever given. "You'll have to try harder than that, Mr. Moriarty."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Miss Irene Adler?" Mycroft's secretary- a handsome bot with neat ginger hair and surprisingly friendly brown eyes- stood in an open doorway and looked with some trepidation at Sherlock, Jim, and Irene (who had retreated to her couch, though she had been watching the two men quite carefully). "Mr. Holmes will see you now."

"It was a pleasure, Mr. Moriarty," Sherlock said, surprised (again, surprised) to find he was telling the truth.

"Call me Jim," Moriarty said, flashing his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. "Catch you later, Sherlock." He winked and walked away slowly, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his Westwood suit jacket.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why, but my italics are simply refusing to show up. They're there in the editor and then- poof! As soon as I hit 'post' they disappear. So, no italics for you.

__John_ _

How could John have forgotten what this was like? He spread his arms and took a deep breath, pulling the fresh air into his lungs and letting the breeze stir over him. Lestrade stood nearby, his arms crossed but a hint of a smile in his eyes. "Plenty of time for that, Watson," he said after a moment, "but the night won't last. Let's go."

John nodded, still dizzy from the fresh air (and the sky! that infinite sky, so out of reach, so wonderful), and set off at a slow pace, looking around at the city with round eyes.  _ _I'll never want to go underground again__ , he thought, meandering towards the nearest port.

Lestrade whistled sharply, and John's eyes snapped back to him. He was standing with his hands on his hips, his huge pack somewhat detracting from the stance as it slightly hunched his back. "We're not taking the portals, you realize."

"Why not?" John looked at the port, then back at Lestrade. "Is the Manor so close?"

Laughing, Lestrade shook his head and thumbed at the port. "Scanners." John must have looked as bewildered as he felt, because Lestrade's eyebrows lifted slightly and he explained, "The portals are equipped with scanners. Unless you want the entirety of the New Met waiting for us at our destination, it would probably be best to just walk. You're London's most wanted, remember?"

"London's most…" John rubbed at his face tiredly. "I seem to have missed that telecast."

It seemed like everything was capable of bringing a flash of amusement to Lestrade's eyes. "Yeah, I guess you would've. They only broadcast that sort of thing to the elite, I suppose." He shrugged and shifted his pack. "Course, most people in the underground hijack the signal. Nobody's offered to boost your device?"

Suddenly, John felt very, very foolish. "That's what he meant by boost." He grinned sheepishly. "I thought the bloke was trying to rob me."

Lestrade's smirk was more playful than insulting. "As it so happens," he said, pulling his telecast out of his pocket, "I tend to save the more interesting 'casts. Let's see..." His tongue poked around in his cheek as he typed a search query into the small device...and then John's face was hovering transparently between them, his eyes worried and his oatmeal jumper sitting crookedly around his throat, one flap of his plaid shirt-collar poking out carelessly. Lestrade cheered and hit play.

"Tonight's big story," said the banal female voice that always accompanied London's evening news, "is that of London's last doctor, ex-soldier John Watson. Don't let his unassuming demeanor fool you; this man is considered by authorities to be armed and dangerous. Reports indicate that Watson has made threats against robot tycoon and major public figure Mycroft Holmes, though the exact nature of these threats is still unknown. Mr. Holmes declined an interview, saying only that he hopes a swift arrest will be made." John's face was replaced with video feed of him entering a port and disappearing in a flash of light, as the announcer stated coolly: "Any information regarding Watson's current whereabouts will be rewarded, says a rep for Holmes Institute, and should be presented immediately. For our next story-" The clip cut off and blinked away.

John swallowed hard and looked up, meeting Lestrade's eyes. "Right," he said, for lack of anything else to say. "You're not..."

"Planning to turn you in a bit of quick cash? Nah." Lestrade grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it."

It worried John that he couldn't tell if Lestrade was joking or not...but it didn't worry him enough to turn back. "Right," he said again. "Well. Shall we?"

Lestrade's grin grew threefold. "You know, Watson," he said, tucking his telecast away and shifting the pack on his back, "for a cheerless bastard, you're sort of all right."


End file.
